For Those They Love
by Dagorloth
Summary: Short Story. Éomer beholds his sister on Pelennor Fields, her face pale white and cold. Dead. And his world collapses.


**For Those They Love  
**By Rai  
**Rated: **PG

**Author's Note: **Once again **Tales from the Hall of Fire** revisits the stories of Éomer, son of Éomund, and touches deeply upon his sister, Éowyn. This one was inspired by the _Return of the King Extended Edition _which features my most favourite scene of our most popular Rider of Rohan; the one where he lets loose that blood-curling scream when he beheld his sister on the fields of battle. That is of course, why I had to add that bit into the tale. -g-  
All my tales are technically stand alones (not counting the whole fact that they're fillers for Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings_) but if you wish, the other Éomer tale belongs to "_Do Not Trust to Hope…_" which also touches a bit on Éomer's relationship with his sister.  
Oh yes and events that come to pass in here are based _very _heavily on the books (And no matter what I tried I could not avoid it without messing with the canon), but of course I worked in Valar knows how many movie lines into this piece because they were that good. -nods- Actually, this idea actually came from a notion that I can weave scenes/pieces of the movie into LOTR and yet remain canon.  
**Spoilers**: Okay um… this tale is really very spoiler heavy for _The Return of the King_. No really, because it spoils a good three to five chapters of the book not to mention the movie. So yeah, read at your own risk, no seriously I mean it.  
**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner or creator of Middle-earth, nor am I the owner of any of the characters mentioned thus. This is just a fanfiction writer trying to tell a small tale that popped into my head and flowed onto the computer one day. Any inconsistencies in canon or story lines are my fault (though I worked hard so that there were none). Grammatical errors are my own. (And thanks to viggomaniac for pointing out my mistake -has since edited it-)  
**Synopsis:** Éomer beholds his sister on Pelennor Fields, her face pale white and cold. Dead. And his world collapses.

* * *

Sweat. Screams. Blood. Battle. Death. 

And the sour scents of rotting flesh.

Éomer, Éomund's son, stood before the fallen body of Théoden, as those who stood by him wept openly at the losing of their King, for he was much loved by his people and Éomer not the least of all, for Théoden had ever been the father he lost and loved him all the dearer because of it, ere the poisons of Wormtongue infected his soul. Already there was so much death, so much pain.

And the day is not yet over.

So this was to be his crowning. Named King of the Mark on a blood-strewn battlefield where he will most likely fall with all that remains of the world of Men in the West of Middle-earth. How sour indeed was this blessing, for he was given a kingdom he himself would never rule.

And by some ill-fate, will cease to exist.

The banner of the King, the white horse on a green field flapped gently in the westerly wind, as he gripped the standard so tightly that his knuckles turned white. It matters not whether he lives to tell of this day or not. They are at war and on the plains of battle, they must now return to the fight.

And as King, albeit for a short while, he must now show the leadership his people desires. The leadership his people needs in this mass slaughter of lives. They deserve as much.

"_Mourn not overmuch, mighty was the fallen,  
__meet was his end. When his mound is raised,  
__women then shall weep. War now calls us!"_

His voice wavered heavily with emotion when he spoke, and though he tried best to hold it back, he too wept silent tears. None there judged him for it, nor did they see it as sign of weakness, for their grief was great and struck their hearts deeply.

"Let his knights remain here," Éomer ordered softly, though firmly, "and bear his body in honour from the field, lest the battle ride over it! Yea, and all these others of the king's men that lie here." He slowly began regaining some control of his emotions as he ordered his men into action. He was the only one now who can lead them, and he must be strong and sure, for them and for himself. And for Rohan.

As those knights began preparing to gather the dead, Éomer looked at the slain, recalling their names, for they were once comrades-in-arms, men he had had the honour to fight along side for the years since he was named a Marshal of the Riddermark. It pained him much to see them thus, robbed of their lives in this foreign land. Never again to see the green hills that they have loved, nor to rush home to the children they had left behind. Never again to laugh, live and drink.

All that was left was their hewn corpses and lifeless eyes, staring out into a world they will never know.

Alas, fate and fortunes give and take, and it was his fortune he was still alive, and their misfortune they were not. Though a dark thought said to him that perhaps he was soon to follow them if the tides of battle did not turn.

Then suddenly he beheld his sister Éowyn as she lay, her radiant golden hair in tangles and her body still and unmoving from where she had collapsed, on top of the mantle that once graced the figure of the Witch-King.

And Éomer beheld her, and knew her.

The banner fell numbly from his grip, clattering soundlessly on the ground before him as he stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through his heart. And it seemed to Éomer the image of his sister, so pale and still, tore straight into his soul, leaving nothing there but a void of darkness. His face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him, so that all speech failed him for awhile, as he tried to comprehend precisely what his eyes were telling him.

The floodgates to his emotions collapsed. This was beyond anything he himself was able to grasp.

The cry of anguish, epitomized in but a single word, drawn out by pain, echoed across Pelennor Field.

"NO!"

He regained movement in his limbs and his speech, and so raced to her fallen body, discarding his helm in his grief. And all who heard the cry knew that this was a cry of a man suffering from a hurt no mortal wound can equal.

He lifted his sister into his lap, the sobs of pure anguish and wretchedness ripping into him deeper than any orc blade could possibly hope to cut him. So cold she was beneath his touch, and so still, so… dead. And he rocked her back and forth, weeping, and a fey mood took him, and he began to speak to her.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" he cried out at last. "Éowyn, how come you here? What madness or devilry is this?"

But as he held her, his arms wrapped about her limp body, the tears leaving trails over the dirt of battle on his face, he realized that he knew precisely what devilry led her to this doom. He had known all along, and yet had not acted upon it, thinking only that it was a sentence spoken in anger. He never thought her to act upon the words she had spoken.

"_I will not be left behind again, brother. What is there I have to fear, for death now seems to me inviting…_"

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"Why would a Halfling be in need of something like a hauberk?" Éomer snorted from in the small lodging of the King's in Dunharrow, chewing thoughtfully on some light waybread.

"I have been asked to find him gear, and I fully intend to fulfill that request," answered Éowyn coldly as she looked up from the crate in which used Rohirrim battle gear was stored, wiping her dusty hands on the simple, dark cotton gown she was wearing. "And the armourer has not the time to make one for him."

Éomer tried hard not to laugh. "Is not shield and helm enough for the little one? For what purpose does one so small need to be fashioned in the outfits of war?"

Éowyn paused slightly as she lifted up a worn hauberk from the box, fingering the engravings of the horse etched onto the leather that was molded atop the metal forged chest plate. "My heart tells me that he will have a need for such gear ere the end. And I have given my word to grant him this small boon."

"Éowyn, you really think we have a hauberk that can fit one of the Holbytlan?" asked Éomer lightly as she opened yet another box, still searching. "We do not outfit children in the regalia of men."

"Merry is not a child," she spoke curtly, "but an esquire of Rohan. He must be dressed appropriately to the task he has been assigned."

"Esquire though he may be, Éowyn, but I feel it only to keep the little one out of trouble," grunted Éomer from his vantage point on the other side of the room. "He will have no need for such armour, where he is going. And for what it is worth sister, you should not encourage him with such gifts as a hauberk. He may have proven his great worth already, but that does not make him a warrior."

"So then what is it that makes one a true hero brother?" she asked frostily, her grey eyes as emotionless and dead as the mountain tops of the south. "The size? The muscle?"

She paused slightly, her eyes shining hollowly, as if haunted by an unseen dream. "You should not doubt him, my brother, for though he may not have the looks of a soldier, he has the heart of one greater than you'll ever know. It takes very little to make a grown man weep and surrender, but it takes much to make him stand up and fight once more though all the powers of darkness lies before him."

"I do not doubt his heart, only the reach of his arm," muttered Éomer rather dryly.

Éowyn's lips hardened to a thin line as she gave her brother a calculating glare. "That was not courteous, brother," she snapped. "For at least his spirit makes up for what he lacks in height."

"And yet height is still what he lacks whether he has all the spirit of all our bravest warriors of past," said Éomer darkly, "and in battle it will most certainly be the death of him. He will not be going to war, Éowyn. It is too risky a venture for a Halfling such as him."

"Why should Merry be left behind?" she hissed coldly. "He has as much cause to go to war as you."

"War is the province of Men," he uttered quietly as he took yet another bite of the waybread.

A deep silence drifted about the room as the two of them faced each other. Éomer was inexpressive as he chewed slowly, staring up at his sister as she stood there, still as a statue, and as cold.

"If that is what you think brother, then you are less wise than even I thought you to be," she said in a deadly whisper. "War is the province of those who threatens peace, and those who tries to protect it, for themselves and for the ones they love, as long as they are willing. Merry is willing. So tell me brother, why can he not fight for those he loves?"

Éomer was taken aback at the sudden force in his sister's voice. It was as if she was no longer just speaking on the Halflings behalf, for the emotions that came with those words spoke of something deeper, something he could not fully perceive, yet it was there, festering in darkness. And he was suddenly struck with a sudden chill as he stared up at his sister, for she seemed to be without any feeling, and yet overcome with it.

But Éomer pushed it aside, thinking little of it. His sister has had a hard life, growing up in a household of Men, no women to comfort her or deal with her feminine strains. And as much as he wished to be of some aid to her, it still would not change that fact that he was a man and she was not, and though they loved each other for she was dearest to his heart, no love could break the rift that gender created between it.

He stood, giving his sister a leveled gaze as he walked slowly forward, his eyes locked on the clear grey of his sister, his face impassive and stern. "You know as little of war as that Hobbit, if you judge his spirit so highly," he intoned menacingly. "Yes he has proven his worth, but not yet in battle. And it is in that where I place my greatest doubt."

He took his sister's shoulder, wheeling her so that she stood directly before him, and her eyes flashed angrily at the forced movement but he did not let it abate him. "When the fear takes him," he murmured to her fiercely, "and the blood and the screams and the horror of battle take hold, do you think he would stand and fight?"

The intensity of their gazes sent such sparks that the room itself seemed to heat up beneath its fire, but neither looked away as they tested their wills against each other.

"No," breathed Éomer as he released her, turning away. "He would flee. And he would be right to do so."

Éowyn's voice trembled as she stared at her brother's retreating form as he made his way out of the room, her eyes brimming with tears. "War is for those who wish to fight it, for those who wish to protect what they love most in their heart! Those who do not fear death when there is honour to be won!" she cried desperately at Éomer, her fist in tight balls at her side. "So then why do you insist that those of us who wish it most must then be left behind?"

"War is the province of Men, Éowyn," he repeated, turning on her, his eyes blazing angrily. "And you will do well to remember that. This is not a tournament, nor a child's game, nor is it a Halfling's outing. It is the primeval struggle to live or to die. War is not fun, war is not glorious, war is not honourable! War is a bloodbath, and fate and fortunes determines your chance in such a chaotic atmosphere. And if you have but one disadvantage, then you shall be one of those to fall to your doom. Death will be his only path if this Hobbit rides with us."

"He would rather meet death then be left behind!" she cried furiously.

"But that is not your decision to make now is it?" snapped Éomer. "This is but none of your business Éowyn! You should know where you stand!"

"I know where I stand _brother_! I am a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and of the House of Eorl!" she said proudly, her grey eyes sharp and clear.

"But in the end, you are just a woman!"

Éowyn's stiffened suddenly as she stared up at her brother, shock written across her features as the colour left her cheeks, leaving her a ghostly pale. She began to back away, stepping slowly, staring at him like one would stare at a stranger.

It took Éomer seconds to realize what he said may have sounded like. "Éowyn, I did not…"

"Just a woman," she interrupted softly, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but her shoulders still hung proud and her back was stiff. "That is all I am to you isn't it? That is all you see me as. Just a women, who can do nothing more but sit, and mind the house, while the men ride to win renown; to be nothing more than a slave, trapped within this cage, merely because of who I was born to be! Merely because this is my fate and my duty as a woman!"

"Sister, please, let me…"

"Someone once told me, that one must sometimes place their duty to their heart over the duty to our people," she said, giving her brother a knowing and accusing gaze, her voice ringing with desperation. "And to that I have this to say Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark and Heir to Théoden King! I will not be left behind again, brother. What is there I have to fear, for death now seems to me inviting… even if I am _just_ a woman!"

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It all made sense now. The words, the emotions; the look she gave him. It all made sense.

If only he had realized this sooner.

The memory was but a few seconds as he held his sister to him, the one person he had left in this world. The one he was fighting for, the person most precious to his heart.

And she was gone. Death had taken her.

"Death," he whispered slowly as he opened his eyes, looking out into a sea of chaos; the chaos of war, of filth, of wretched battle.

"Death," he repeated, louder this time as Éowyn's slid numbly from his hands as he stood to his feet, the tears still falling from his face, the torment of his soul still clear in his expression. But his eyes held a new fury and the light of one who had descended into madness.

"DEATH! Death to us all!" His scream cut into the hearts of many orcs that stood nearby, and they trembled at the fury that accompanied the cry, so hard and horrifying that it shattered what courage some had and they stood there trembling to be cut down by those still at battle. But Éomer saw nothing, only the red light that descended on his vision, the red light of a bloodlust, of revenge without glory, battle without hope.

Then without taking counsel or waiting for the approach of the men of the city, he spurred headlong back to the front of the great host, and blew a horn, and cried aloud for the onset. Over the field rang his clear voice calling: "Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!"

"DEATH!" echoed the Rohirrim, great and powerful were their combined voices, as the battlelust took them, and the great host began to move. But the Rohirrim sang no more. _Death _they cried with one voice loud and terrible, and gathering speed like a great tide their battle swept about their fallen king and passed, roaring away southward, led by one who had fallen berserk.

Éomer's blade hummed as he drove his steed ever onward, the black blood of the orcs flowing freely from his blade as it smote them with all the strength his rage surrendered to him, spurring him ever onward. But he heard not the screams of battle, nor the terrible howls of the enemy or the cries of his own men. He heard only the last words he and his beloved sister exchanged as they prepared to ride from Dunharrow.

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"What other duty would you have me do my lord?" asked Éowyn to Théoden, her voice monotonous and deprived of any feeling, and yet her arms firmly at her side. Herfists crumpled the white skirt of the white gown that graced her figure, looking ever bit the royal lady of Rohan that she was, her back straight and tall, ignoring her brother who stood at the doorway, waiting on Théoden. But for all the airs she graced her King, her eyes still shone of one who was both wounded and had fallen to despair.

"Duty?" whispered Théoden, his blue eyes staring into her dim grey ones. "No. I would have you smile again… not grieve for those whose time has come."

He took her face into his hands, and he gave her a look of great pity, for it pained him to see one he loved so dearly hurt. "You shall live to see these days renewed, and no more despair." He kissed her lightly on her forehead, as he stared at her tenderly. "Éowyn," he choked, "dearer than daughter, there will come a day when the sun will shine, and the days are glad. It will come, and I will have you see it."

Bowing low, he gave her a last, sad smile. "_Westu, Éowyn, hál_," he said softly, nodding to Éomer as he passed through the doors, heading outside to the men that waited beyond the Hold.

Éomer stood by the door in silence as he watched his sister fumble with her skirt, refusing to look at him, her eyes downcast. The grief that she was angered at him tore through his heart, though he guessed, perhaps she had a right to be so upset.

"I could not leave without saying good-bye to you sister," Éomer said softly as he began moving towards her, but Éowyn looked away as she drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I know you will lead our people well, for you are wise and fair."

"Even if I am _just _a woman?" she said scathingly, her eyes still averted but glazed with tears.

The words wrenched at his soul and he stood, transfixed by the loathing that dripped from those words, wishing with all his heart that he had said anything else but what he had said. "Éowyn when I spoke so harshly…" he trailed off sadly, for he knew not how to make amends for what he had done, nor could he find an excuse to his words.

"Éowyn," he started again, "I know I cannot take those words back, and I will not make excuses for it. But I ride to war now, perhaps never to return. Please, let us not be parted on poor circumstances, for it would hurt me greatly if I was to die on the field of battle, thinking in my heart that my sister no longer loved me. It would be a bitter death. I just want you to know that I love you sister, for you have always been the one thing that drove me onward in battle. Since the day I swore to our ailing mother, that I would protect you to whatever bitter end. So that you may see tomorrow's sun."

A tear slid down the side of her face, and she did not brush it off as she turned to her brother, her eyes empty and lifeless. "I have always loved you, brother," she whispered. "Even in anger, I have loved you. But even if you were victorious in battle, there will be no sun to shine on me, nor light to gladden my eyes. There will only be darkness."

Éomer blinked at these words as another tear slid down her cheek, and he walked towards her, concern filling his eyes as he took both her arms. "No," he said. "The darkness will pass, and there will be beauty and light, sister. You must know that." He hugged her, as he silently put all his protection in that one embrace, before pulling away, his own eyes bright with tears. "I will see you again, perhaps, sister."

"You may see me sooner than you think, brother," she whispered as he walked out of the room, letting Éomer puzzle over just what she might mean by those words.

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Pelennor Fields was dark and still under the setting sun, red light strewn across the already blood-soaked landscape of fallen men, orc, horse and rider. The battle had ended and though victorious, it was at a vicious price. Éomer may have walked out unharmed and unscathed, so great was his fury and skill in battle, but he did not leave without a broken and tormented soul, for what family he had left in the world was gone.

His little sister, the one person he had sworn to always protect, the one whom he had always looked for upon his return… the one he loved dearest in this world, was gone. And that knowledge wrenched at him like a dull blade to his gut.

All he had left now was a kingdom, which he would trade, if only to have his sister here with him again, alive and smiling up at him.

Éomer and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth entered the White Citadel of Minas Tirith, seeking the Steward, to bring him tidings of the battle beyond. But they were met with only an empty chair, and before the dais lay Théoden King of the Mark upon a bed of state; and twelve torches and guards stood about it, knights both Rohan and Gondor. The hangings of the bed were of green and white, but upon the king was laida great cloth of gold upon his breast and upon that his unsheathed sword, and at his feet his shield. The light of the torches shimmered in his white hair like sun in the spray of a fountain, but his face was fair and young, save that a peace lay on it beyond the reach of youth; and it seemed that he slept.

When they had stood silent for a time beside the king, Imrahil said, "Where is the Steward? And where also is Mithrandir?"

One of the guards answered, "The Steward of Gondor is in the Houses of Healing."

Éomer's face was distraught as he stared not at his king's body, but about it, confusion clear in his glance."Where is the Lady Éowyn, my sister," he asked, "for surely she should be lying beside the king, and in no less honour? Where have they bestowed her?" His voice was thick and heavy with emotion, and the helm he had clasped in his arm was held tightly, for the grief of his loss was still weighing him down.

Imrahil turned suddenly on the Lord Éomer, his shock apparent as he said, "But the Lady Éowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know?"

Then hope unlooked-for came so suddenly to Éomer's heart, as the words of Prince Imrahil echoed through his very consciousness. "_The Lady Éowyn was yet living… The Lady Éowyn was yet living…_" And he stood as a man struck by some unseen force, his eyes wide in shock as he looked suddenly upon Imrahil, seeking to see if this one lies, that it was but a cruel and heartless joke. But there was no deceit in his eyes, only compassion.

Which meant…

With the bite of care and fear renewed, he said no more, but turned and went swiftly from the halls, as fast as his legs and his dignity would allow him to walk without breaking out into a desperate dash. If she still yet lived, if she isn't yet dead… then there was still hope.

If…

"Lord Éomer?" cried Imrahil as he raced to catch up with the Lord of the Mark, and he beheld a man with a light that he did not see in the Marshal before. Where in his eyes shone only darkness and despair, there was now hope and courage, and strength unchallenged. There was life in his gaze once more as they marched swiftly outside, into the evening that had fallen, and above many stars were in the sky.

And the Prince smiled as they walked out towards the Houses of Healing. It is good to have hope and all was not yet lost.

There was still light in this world…

**The End**

**Epilogue:  
**"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" said Aragorn again, and he took her right hand in his and felt it warm with life returning. "Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!" Then he laid her hand in Éomer's and stepped away. "Call her!"

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" cried Éomer amid his tears. But she opened her eyes and said: "Éomer! What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?"

"Not long, my sister," said Éomer. "But think no more on it!"

He clasped her hand in his, his eyes still bright from the tears in his eyes, streaking down his cheeks as he beheld her, alive and awake. Love was shining in his eyes, but also some mild, but light annoyance. "_Éowyn if you ever do something such as this to me ever again, I swear I shall go completely mad._"

Éowyn blinked at the sudden thought that flashed in his eyes, and could not help but smile slightly, if sadly. "_I told you brother that I would not be left behind. And I did say we would meet sooner then you think…_"

Aloud she sighed weakly. "I am strangely weary…"


End file.
